I was talking with a friend about how much I love words. Reading is a natural soft spot for introverts but for me it’s more than a hobby, it’s a love affair with this truly peculiar given we call language. The word language itself, how cool is that? I’ve forgotten my Latin and am too lazy to look up the root. Must come from the tongue, lingua. Just as numbers people play with the possible meanings and connections of numbers I instinctively do the same with words, and fall upon rhymes and misspellings with dismay (“alot”) or delight (“anecdon’t”).
I mentioned anecdon’t in another post; that’s pretty obviously an object lesson, the classic “do as I say, not as I do.”
Another favorite one is oatmean, which of course is what you have for breakfast when you’ve gotten up on the wrong side of the bed.
“Language” the word reminds me of anguish and sandwich, and there is a short story with those three words, for sure. We only need two characters eager to make themselves understood, failing miserably, and hungry.
i had written to my friend that I see words as pieces of silk, whispery caresses. Or as tiny smooth river pebbles in which one might bathe at a fancy spa.
Choosing the right words in the right sequence: so mechanical. Paint by number. Or, alchemical. Vermeer.